


The Cacophony

by mybluehighways



Category: Supernatural
Genre: BDSM, Belts, Catharsis, Dean Blames Himself, Dean Hates Himself, Dean is an emotional wreck, Dom/sub Undertones, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, First Kiss, Hurt/Comfort, I'm Bad At Tagging, I'm bad at POV, Insecure Dean, M/M, Mild Blood, Painplay, Praise Kink, Reluctant Sadist, Self-Loathing, Whipping, mind-reading
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-29
Updated: 2016-05-29
Packaged: 2018-07-10 23:56:08
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,124
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7013788
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mybluehighways/pseuds/mybluehighways
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Dean Winchester if you do not stop beating yourself up, I will be forced to give you a different kind of beating.” </p><p>---</p><p>Basically, Dean gets the self-loathing beat out of him by Cas and then there's A Kiss.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Cacophony

**Author's Note:**

> I've been working on this for 6 months and only just now got enough courage to post it. It's my first publicly-posted fic. Please be gentle.
> 
> CW: Tiny mention of choking, some blood.

“Cas…” the word caught high in Dean’s throat, broken and splintering under the weight of a tightly-restrained sob.

The silence between them was soft, like a well-worn blanket, but it was filled with so much pain. Dean could barely think through the pain, it reverberated behind his eyes with thought after jagged thought punching at the inside of his skull. Castiel stood just out of sight in the shadows in the periphery of Dean’s vision. He knew better than to move or to speak, though the undeniable voice in Castiel’s head whispered, _You pushed him too far this time; you broke him._ He let it bully him for just a moment, let his hand twitch upwards towards the key that hung on his belt loop, let his left foot drift forward just a step. Then he let it go, closing his eyes and drawing a deep but quiet breath. _A tone of voice is not a safeword_ , he reminded himself.

Briefly, Castiel wondered if this had really been such a good idea after such an intense hunt, but he pushed the thoughts aside again. Dean wanted this. Had asked when he came back, face streaked with grime and flannel shirt soaked with something else’s blood. Dean had entered the bunker, stumbling down the stairs with legs so tired they were only carrying him through pure adrenaline, and dropped his green army duffle heavily at the base of the stairs. Castiel had been reading about the mating rituals of Emperor Penguins in a plush armchair when Dean entered the room, hesitating at the doorway, part of him not wanting to disturb Cas. But he crossed the room anyway before he could stop himself and knelt as gracefully and quietly as he could beside Cas’ chair. Castiel registered a sudden soft thump beside him. He had looked down to see Dean, eyes wide, pupils constricted, out of breath, with a cut across his cheek, kneeling by the side of the chair staring up at him.

“Dean?”

“Cas…I…. I need it,” was all Dean could get out.

“What happened, Dean?”

The words had caught in Dean’s throat and he’d shaken his head, casting his eyes downwards, his shoulders slumping heavily.

“Dean… are you sure? Maybe you should rest…” Cas had reached out his hand to touch the hunter’s cheek, thumb skimming over where the blood was slowly caking and drying.

“No. Now, Cas. I need you now.” Dean whispered, tucking his head further downward, out of Castiel’s reach.

Castiel knew well enough what he had meant. They’d played this ‘game’ as Dean had begun calling it many times before. Sometimes Dean would return hurt in more than just the physical sense. The first time it was because he’d been knocked unconscious and nearly ‘let’ a vamp take Sam’s head off (Dean’s words, not Castiel’s). He’d dragged himself through the door of the motel, sinking down against it as he closed it behind him and curling himself into a ball. Castiel didn’t think Dean even knew he was praying that first time. It was such jumble of words and images and thoughts that even Castiel-Angel-Of-The-Lord couldn’t figure it out. All he knew was one message came through loud and clear: _Cas, I need you now._ When he had appeared in the mustard-yellow motel room, Dean was quietly sobbing, knees tucked to his chest, back flat against the door, head down, and hands fisted in his hair. Sam was no where to be found. Presumably getting food or dealing with the near-miss his own way, whatever that was.

Castiel had tried talking Dean down from his own mental ledge, explaining that it **could not possibly be his fault when he was unconscious**. He had crouched in front of Dean, explaining the intricacies of human neurological anatomy to him. When it was clear that that wasn’t working, he had grabbed Dean by the upper arm and thrown him under the shower head, running cold water and then hot. But the tornado of thoughts was still echoing around inside Dean’s skull. Castiel could hear it despite Dean’s insistence that he “was fine” and to just leave him alone. It was an onslaught of _should_ s and _should have_ s and _need to_ s and _must_ s and flashes of every “bad decision” Dean had ever made, all just pounding themselves against the atmosphere of his skull, crying and screaming out for someone to stop the cycle of self-hate. Castiel tried beer and burgers and fries and hot chocolate and pie and everything that he could possibly think of to make it stop. Finally, when Castiel couldn’t take it anymore he had grown frustrated and snapped, accidentally raising his voice to Dean, saying, “Dean Winchester if you do not stop beating yourself up, I will be forced to give you a different kind of beating.”

The noise had stopped. Instantly.

Dean had blinked, making eye contact with Castiel for the first time that night.

And so it had begun.

Since then it had become their routine; Dean’s coping ritual to silence the self-loathing before it got out of control. Sometimes it was just the threat of violence that was needed, sometimes more. Slowly, over a period of months, they had struggled through awkward conversations: limits, safewords, boundaries, needs. Those conversations were as much torture for Dean as the actual beatings, but Castiel insisted upon them. _If this is how you need me to help you, Dean Winchester, I will help you, but I simply will not do so without your consent._ The mind-reading helped. Often Dean couldn’t vocalize the words, but the thoughts came through loud and clear for Castiel. He ached to see Dean fall apart like this and at first it had been hard, so hard, to cause the human, _**his**_ human, more pain. But when he saw the change in Dean afterwards it was always worth it. The fifth time, when Dean had grabbed the regular bullets instead of the silver ones for a wolf hunt in Tennessee and had chastised himself about it for weeks before coming to Cas for help, Castiel had pinned him to a wall and choked him until Dean was crying freely and whispering, “thank you, Cas, thank you, thank you, thank you” over and over and over again. That gratitude had stayed with Castiel, given him hope. Maybe with enough of this Dean would see how worthy he was of love.

The soft clink of metal on metal brought Castiel back to the present. Dean had twisted his torso to the right, causing the thick chains that secured his wrists to the ceiling to shift. He straightened his neck, lifting his head and his pale green eyes stared at Cas and Castiel stared back, expression carefully composed to be blank. Dean tensed the muscles in his arms, pulling himself upward just a little bit more. Cas could see the effort it took, muscles in his naked torso trembling under the strain.

“Cas…. Please….” was all Dean could manage. Even that took monumental effort.

Silence.

“Cas?”

“What is it, Dean?” Castiel had already decided to push Dean this time. Castiel made eye contact with Dean, watching him shrivel under such an intensely intimate act, even though subtle.

“Jeez, Cas, are you gonna punch me or what? Let’s get this show on the road.” Dean’s sarcastic chuckle was hollow, a coping mechanism to keep the vulnerability at bay. ... _pl_ _ease just let him hit me, please just let him hit me, please just let him hit me..._

“I will do much more than punch you, Dean Winchester, but this time you will have to ask.”

Stunned silence. Dean squirmed, head dropping down, thoughts rising in a cacophony in his head… _He hates me…Cas hates me…he loathes me…look at him…he’s grown tired of this…thinks I’m a freak…I’m a freak…oh God I **let it get away** …_

Castiel heard the thoughts but did not rush to correct them. He simply waited. After a few minutes, he reached down, undoing the buckle of the black leather belt and letting it slide from the belt loops of his black dress pants. He removed the well-worn, tan, trench coat, shrugging it off his shoulders and tossing it to a corner of the room and slowly, deliberately, rolled up the sleeves of his white button up. All the while Dean squirmed. Dean felt like he would die if Cas waited any longer. The noise in his head was unbearable. He was regretting having asked, he should have just grabbed a bottle of whiskey instead of dragging Cas into his shit yet again. God he was such a **freak** for needing this, for wanting this. What was it about Cas’ presence that put a pause on everything going on inside him? Why couldn’t he just be **normal** like every other human being? Dean knew this wasn’t normal. How could it be? He didn’t even know why his brain did it. Not really, anyway. It always had, ever since he was a kid. Just little things became so big. Part of it, he was sure, was the way John Winchester raised them: the incessant pressure to be perfect. John had told Dean the first time he’d let him come on a hunt, _“Dean, there are no mistakes for a hunter. Fuck up in this line of work and you’ll get yourself killed."_  It was a lesson repeated over and over and over again all his life: _**the simplest thing can get you Dead.**_ _Oh god...I let it get away, I let it get away, I let it get away..._

Finally, Cas stepped forward and Dean instantly focused in on the movement, lurching himself out of his thoughts. Cas placed one finger under Dean’s chin and tilted the hunter’s head so Dean’s eyes met his. “Dean, I do not think you are a freak. On the contrary, I think you are a strong, beautiful man with a very broken mind.” Dean visibly tensed at the praise, closing his eyes against it. “Open your eyes, Dean Winchester.” He did. Castiel bit back more praise. Dean wasn’t ready for it. “Today I will use this belt on you, but you must ask me for it this time. Can you do that?”

Dean shook his head, sure that he couldn’t possibly get the words out the way Cas wanted. His throat felt sewn shut and his eyes heavy with impending tears that he refused to let fall. Crying from pain was one thing; crying without pain was another altogether. _Why can’t he just read my thoughts and know I want this? I need this._

“Oh, I can, Dean. I can read your thoughts, but I want to hear you say it.”

“Cas…I….”

Cas waited, standing inches from Dean, watching his muscles twitch in the chains, watching him shift his weight from foot to foot, his jaw clench and unclench, all the signs of a silent war being waged. Dean screwed his eyes shut, every brain cell screaming _YOU CAN’T, YOU CAN’T, DON’T YOU DARE ASK, YOU FREAK, YOU FREAK, YOU FREAK!_

“I want…”

Dean twitched again at just those two words, stepped backwards, tried to pull his arms in to protect himself, pulling the chain taught. When he realized he had nowhere to retreat to he stopped, forcing two more words out in a tumble of breath,

“you to”

He swayed and stumbled forward, being unable to maintain the previous position for more than a second, but his shoulders pulled back tensing until Castiel thought they might actually snap.

“hit me.”

The last words came out in a horse whisper and immediately all the fight went out of Dean, as if Castiel had already struck him. Dean’s shoulder’s sagged heavily, knees buckled just slightly, suspending much of his weight from his wrists for a few moments until he picked himself back up again, arms aching. He let out a small breath, ducking his head as low as it would go between his arms. Castiel did not say a word, merely crossed behind him, doubling over the belt in his hands and getting a good grip on it.

The first blow fell without any warning, cracking over Dean’s right shoulder and pushing all the tension out of Dean’s body in a rush. He sagged limp against the chains, allowing himself to feel the sting ease through his nerves. Castiel slowed his breath, waiting for the “red” or “yellow” to come, but it didn’t. He hit Dean again, this time over the left shoulder. Still nothing. Dean pulsed, feeling the relief slowly sink into his shoulder blades. This, he could handle.

Castiel paused, closed his eyes briefly, and whispered a prayer to Heaven, _Please let this not be too far against His Will; I am only trying to do Good._ Then he let go, letting the belt snap freely against Dean’s flesh, one blow after another. On the 3rd strike, Dean’s back began to show marks – red imprints from the belt – and Dean’s breathing turned ragged. On the 6th strike, Dean cried out, part moan, part sob, part indistinguishable sound of a wounded animal. It was after 6 that he lost count and that Castiel noticed Dean was crying, the concrete floor dampened by the tears falling from his eyes. He hit Dean again – 7 - and they both felt it reverberate through them, the tense and release from Dean’s shoulders finding it’s equal in the hitch in Castiel’s breath as he noticed welts beginning to form. He reached out, tracing a finger down one of the raw marks; one more hit there and Dean would bleed. Dean shuddered heavily at the touch, as if he had been struck again. The startling shift in sensation pierced through the pleasant, buzzing, fog that had started in the base of his skull and spread to behind his eyes, wiping out all coherent thought until Dean just **was** , nothing more than the sensation of being struck. He gasped, the feel of Cas’ fingers on his skin so different from anything else they had done, so gentle, warm, soft. Dean wanted to press back into it, let Cas’ arms encircle him, hold him, but then he panicked, anxiety rising in his chest. He heard the words leave his own mouth before he could even stop them,

“Cas,” he choked out, “Don’t….. not yet.”

Castiel removed his hand, awe slowly registering in the base of his throat. Dean had never spoken in the middle of a scene before. Cried, screamed, yelled, yes, but never with words.

_Not yet._

The words rattled through Castiel, starting in his sternum and pushing their way out along his spine, exploding in his head, dry, cackling fireworks.

_Not yet._

Did that mean…? Would Dean let him this time?

He stepped back and rewarded Dean with another lash. Dean cried out again, pulsed forward, recoiled back, tucked his head, asking for more silently, letting the fog descend again.

“Yes,” he sobbed, “please, Cas.”

He was bleeding now. Neither of them cared. Number 9 fell with a loud crack across the same place that 8 had and another smear of blood spread across Dean’s shoulder blade. With a strangled sob, Dean’s knees gave out entirely, suspending all his weight from his arms. Were it not for the chain, he would have collapsed entirely. He felt like he was exploding and being drained all at once. Pain danced across his back with every breath he took, but his mind was blank, as if every thought in it had simply drained out through his tear ducts.

Suddenly, warm arms were around him, undoing the cuffs on his wrists, supporting his weight easily, guiding him to the floor, wrapping him in a blanket, and…. **staying there ....**   **holding him**. Cas eased Dean into his lap on the floor and he carded his hands through Dean’s hair. He was rewarded with a moan of a relief.

“I am so proud of you, Dean Winchester,” It came out as a whisper when Cas meant it to sound stronger, more sure. The rest of it tumbled out before he could stop himself, “my good boy.”

Dean stiffened, but only for a millisecond before he relaxed, his eyes blinking open, pupils dilating as he stared into Castiel’s deep blue eyes.

“I want to be,” Dean croaked after some time, “your good boy, I mean.” He blushed.

A smile split Castiel’s face, and his voice lost the gravely tone as he managed to squeak out, “You do? I mean, you are, Dean. **You** **are good** , but… I… I thought this was just….”

“A means to an end?” Dean supplied helpfully.

“Something like that.”

Dean hesitated. He expected the thoughts to come rushing back, pounding at his skull, digging their nails into his eye sockets, telling him that he _couldn’t_ and _shouldn’t_ and _mustn’t_. But all was quiet. Cas stroked Deans hair quietly, watching him, waiting, he would have held is breath if Angels needed to breathe.

“It was,” Dean continued, “but now…I….” The words disappeared again. He searched around for them, blindly pressing into corners and long-forgotten spaces in his head. But there was nothing. Castiel looked like he was holding his breath; what did that mean, ‘his good boy?’ Cas could see Dean searching for the words and he let him, waiting patiently.

Finally, Dean fumbled his hand out from underneath the blanket and reached up, his fingers grazing Cas’ cheek gently and then gliding up to rest on the back of the angel’s neck. Castiel’s eyes widened as Dean pulled Cas down to him, kissing him gently and pulling back with hesitation that that had been too much, realizing that maybe Angels Of The Lord didn’t kiss. Dean’s hand moved off Cas’ neck, hovering in the air above it, waiting. Castiel closed his eyes and pushed back into Dean, their lips smashing together as Castiel poured all the pent-up heat from years of loving this man into the kiss. He licked Dean’s lips, asking silently, and Dean opened, letting Cas lick inside, letting his head tilt back and feeling Cas’ strong arms lift his battered torso upwards. Dean moaned as Cas deepened the kiss; he couldn’t help it. The sound made Cas’ stomach tense and release, sending little ripples of pleasure up and down his spine. He pulled back reluctantly, letting Dean catch his breath and cupped Dean’s face in his warm hands. Dean’s eyes fluttered open. He sighed against Cas’ strong, gentle touch. Castiel began to speak, voice soothing and low,

“You astound me, Dean. Whatever is in my power to give, you shall have, most especially my love. You are and always have been my good boy.”


End file.
